Let Slip the Dogs of Love
by i-must-go-first
Summary: The captain's green eyes sliced into Andy's brown ones as he lowered himself into the plastic chair opposite her. Even here, she managed to look aloof, regal. Reaching up with her cuffed wrists, she flipped her hair over her shoulder and shrugged, jerking her chin toward the shapeless uniform that obscured her shapely form. "I know," she said. "Orange really isn't my color."
1. Prologue

Word Count: 2,512

Rating: M (eventually)

Pairing: Sharon/Andy; may also include some Sharon/Brenda (and may not - it's a WIP)

Summary: His commanding officer's clear green eyes sliced into Andy's dark brown ones as he lowered himself into the folding metal chair opposite her in the prison's visitors' reception room. Even here, she managed to look aloof, regal. Reaching up with her cuffed wrists, she flipped her long ponytail over her shoulder and shrugged, jerking her chin toward the shapeless uniform that obscured her shapely body. "I know, lieutenant," she said evenly. "Orange really isn't my color."

**Let Slip the Dogs of Love**

_ "Cry 'Havoc!', and let slip the dogs of war"_ - Shakespeare, _Julius Caesar_, Act III, Scene 1, line 273

Love Dogs

Mevlana Rumi, translated by Coleman Barks

_One night a man was crying Allah! Allah!  
His lips grew sweet with praising,  
until a cynic said, "So!  
I've heard you calling out, but have you ever  
gotten any response?"  
The man had no answer to that.  
He quit praying and fell into a confused sleep.  
He dreamed he saw Khidr, the guide of souls,  
in a thick, green foliage.  
"Why did you stop praising?" "Because  
I've never heard anything back."  
"This longing you express  
is the return message."  
The grief you cry out from  
draws you toward union.  
Your pure sadness  
that wants help  
is the secret cup.  
Listen to the moan of a dog for its master.  
That whining is the connection.  
There are love dogs  
no one knows the names of.  
Give your life  
to be one of them._

** Prologue**

Waking up with a splitting headache, the vaguest possible recollection of the past twelve hours, and no ready knowledge of one's own whereabouts is usually not the herald of a fantastic day, so Captain Sharon Raydor had no trouble brushing Mr. Bluebird off her shoulder and refraining from whistling any cheery tunes as she squinted at the generic beige ceiling directly above her. As the concussive pounding that threatened to split her skull in twain subsided enough to let her think, she swallowed down her nausea and gradually drew a steely-eyed bead on the amoeba-shaped watermark just to the left of center.

Her mouth tightened in displeasure. She'd have to call Mr Petrossian, the super. The toilet up in 12D must be leaking.

The mattress creaked as she shifted, and the captain realized two things simultaneously: she was indubitably going to vomit, and the ceiling of her cozy but modern condo was not beige.

She made it to the bathroom of what turned out to be a generic motel room - and not a very clean one, she noted, recoiling in distaste from her bird's-eye view of the toilet bowl - just in time. After expelling the sour contents of her stomach, Sharon pressed the back of a shaking hand to her dry lips and winced, fighting another rising tide welling up from the pit of her stomach: panic.

How had she ended up here? And where, more pressingly, was here?

It was very bad form for the head of FID to wake up in a seedy motel, suffering the ill effects of a bender she couldn't remember.

No, that wasn't right either. Not FID. Major Crimes. The head of Major Crimes. Well, still: no better.

For Sharon Raydor, waking up in a seedy motel, suffering the ill effects of a bender she couldn't remember, was inconceivable. She closed her eyes - without her glasses everything was swimming dizzyingly anyway, making the nausea worse - and breathed deeply, just as she did in her yoga classes. She felt the sharply cool press of the tile floor against her knees and heard the buzz of the lighting strip. She swallowed down the bitter taste of bile and reminded herself that if she sought answers, the only way to find them was to clear her mind of all distractions.

The problem was that the captain's mind had already been cleared. It was a perfect blank. A void.

Well, not a perfect blank. She knew her badge number and her children's birthdays and the names of all the counties in California in alphabetical order.

She got to her feet without touching the toilet, flushed it, and fumbled to unwrap the cake of oily motel soap lying beside the sink. She was fully dressed in the clothes she remembered putting on yesterday morning - it had just been yesterday, hadn't it? - the gray pencil skirt and slate-blue blazer, but her feet were bare... and filthy. She stared at them there on the white tile as if they belonged to someone else - as if someone else's toenails were painted black in a tiny act of rebellion, someone else's secret little indulgence; as if the scar on her left ankle was the result of a particularly nasty slip of someone else's razor - with a strange sense of detached curiosity. Balancing against the sink, she lifted one foot to examine the sole, confirming what the smudges on the tile had already told her: it was black, the cleaner arch showing in stark relief, as if she'd been walking on asphalt. The parking lot, maybe. Had she left her shoes in her car?

No, she couldn't have. There was no way the captain would have gotten behind the wheel in the state she must have been in the night before. No driving meant no car, right?

She lifted her eyes to her reflection. Her hair was flat and a little tangled, her skin sallow. Otherwise she was the same unremarkable middle-aged woman she saw in the mirror every day.

She shuffled back out into the bedroom and confronted the queen-sized bed with its sagging mattress and the print of a vase of carnations that was bolted to the wall. Even the subject of the "art" was cheap, she thought, even as she noted that she'd slept atop the covers, leaving a small depression where her body had rested. She turned slowly, hands on her hips (best to make no sudden moves in her state), and then bent cautiously and peered under the bed. There was no sign of her shoes. Her handbag, however, the sturdy brown leather she used for work, slumped haphazardly on the nightstand.

But where were her shoes?

Her heart was beating rapidly as Sharon used two fingers to open a crack in the faded green curtains. She was on the second floor, looking out over a parking lot that could have been any parking lot, except that in this particular parking lot there was her car - not the Crown Vic but her own car, the little silver Accura with the scrape on the front bumper that Rusty had put there when she'd given him his first driving lesson.

_Oh, Jesus_, she thought. _**Rusty**_. What must he be thinking? He'd be frantic. He'd think something awful had happened to her - and this was a boy who had been abandoned by his own mother at a damn _zoo._

The captain swallowed hard and sank down on the edge of the bed. Doubtless the comforter was as filthy as the rest of her surroundings, but surely she'd already contracted whatever contagious diseases might permeate its fibers. She was momentarily distracted from her worry over Rusty by a worse thought.

She _had_ driven here.

Unless someone had driven her...?

Sharon took a tight, fluttery breath, trying to convince her stomach not to revolt again. She wasn't sure which of the two possibilities was more horrific. Both made her skin crawl. Either she'd driven under the influence, which was unconscionable, or she'd been with some faceless stranger in this place. She jumped up from the bed and rapidly scrutinized it again, this time with a forensic eye, but saw no indication that another person had been there. Nothing had been disturbed in the bathroom; there was nothing in the trash. There was no tell-tale soreness in any seldom-used muscles.

So there was that, then; she probably hadn't had blind-drunk sex with a stranger she'd met... in a bar? Had she been in a bar?

That was a hell of a silver lining.

Her mouth was as dry as the desert, and her heart was hammering. _Drugged_, she thought, and was vaguely astonished that it had taken her fuzzy brain so long to reach that conclusion. She must've been drugged.

The heart that was already beating unnaturally rapidly lurched as if it might leap right out of her chest and flop helplessly onto the hideous floral bedspread.

She should go see her doctor. She should do that now, first thing, and have blood drawn. She needed to know what had been done to her.

Been done to her: Raydor revolted at the passive construction of the sentence. It made her sound like a victim, and while the captain was many things, she was no one's victim.

She stood up again and looked around irritably. Where were her goddamned shoes?

She seized her purse and was struck immediately by its lightness.

Shit. This day kept improving.

Her fingers were already scrabbling inside, brushing against her badge, her service weapon - thank Christ for that - but no phone, and no keys.

Someone had drugged her and taken her cell phone and keys, she thought with an odd sense of calm. This was not good. This was really not good.

But they'd left her wallet, heavy with the change she had a habit of collecting until she did something like pay for an entire cup of coffee all in dimes. She felt a glimmer of relief as her eyes swept over her driver's license, the two crumpled twenties someone had probably washed in the washing machine (like her aunt Laverne used to do on purpose), the AmEx and debit card and that discount card from the pharmacy and the coupon for the brand of eyeliner she liked. _Okay_, she thought, making an effort to jiggle her sluggish thought process, force it into action. _Okay, okay._

Clearing her throat, she lifted the receiver of the bedside phone and stabbed at the number zero. When a heavily accented voice - Russian? Eastern European, anyway - answered, she curtly announced, "I need a cab."

"Lady, you no have cell phone?"

Sharon's jaw tightened. "What, is it long distance? Call me a cab and I won't report you for health code violations - I'm a cop," she added when the man began to protest, and hung up.

Perhaps nearly a decade in Internal Affairs had done little to hone her people skills.

She was perspiring profusely, an unnatural sweat that felt sticky, clammy, and dense on her skin. She shuddered and automatically drew her hairbrush through her long dark hair.

The bedside phone rang and the voice from before snarled, "Ten minutes."

The air was very dry, the rays of the sun intense for late September - but Sharon realized that for all she knew it could be afternoon.

It was Saturday. She was pretty sure it was Saturday. It was supposed to be Saturday, and she was off - unless she'd been summoned to a crime scene. Without her phone she had no way of knowing. Hoping she was still employed, the captain gingerly picked her way across the parking lot to her car, skirting several broken beer bottles and a used condom. It was locked, but through the window she could see no sign of shoes.

Sharon blew out a shaky breath. Her eyes fell to her front bumper and then widened, the automatic response making her wince. The wide, deep dent there was not the little scrape Rusty had left. It looked as if she'd rammed into a post... or worse.

Her entire body shuddered, and she was afraid she was going to vomit again.

She had a duty to report this... incident. She'd been the victim of a crime. At the very least, the head of Major Crimes was in a very compromising position and there was someone out there with all her keys, her cellphone, with access to her work email, and her most reliable black pumps.

She could call in now, from the motel office - the Golden Palm, according to the dilapidated neon sign - have a black and white come meet her. A tech from SID would need to sweep the room before it was cleaned (although the likelihood of its being cleaned again this year seemed very low).

She desperately wanted a shower. She wanted to hug Rusty, if he would let her, and assure him - assure both of them - that everything was okay. She wanted an extra large cup of coffee. She wanted _shoes._

A car pulled into the parking lot, but it wasn't her expected cab. As if someone had read her mind, it was a police cruiser. The two officers who emerged were young, not rookies but still wet behind the ears; Sharon read them at a glance. She shifted, standing up straight the way Elinore had taught her, exuding dignity even in her bare feet.

"Sharon Raydor?" asked the chocolate-skinned man, and his petite blonde partner murmured, "It's her, Ty. I recognize her."

"Captain Sharon Raydor?" the first officer repeated.

"Yes." Sharon took two steps forward, reaching into her purse. "I -"

She felt them draw their weapons before she saw them. "Hands in the air!" the male officer barked.

No stranger to police procedure, she wasn't stunned; but she was surprised. These kids were jumpy. If she were still in FID, she would've expected to see both of them in the not-too-distant future, sitting sullenly in her office. If they went around pulling their guns on superior officers, what would they do when confronted with real perps?

"I was reaching for my identification," Sharon replied as calmly as she could - her calm was in short supply this morning, but she still had more than most people possessed. "How - have you found my lost property?" Behind their service weapons they looked blank (they were, she reminded herself, younger than her children), and she elaborated, "My cell phone and my keys. They were stolen."

She wished her head didn't hurt so badly. She wished the light weren't so bright. If they hadn't found her phone and keys, why were they here? How did they know she was here in the first place? No one would dispatch a black and white to return someone's cell phone, not even a captain's cell phone. Her head swam.

"I don't understand," she admitted quietly, her voice sounding strangely absent in her ears. "I'm not feeling well."

It was embarrassing, potentially damaging - any display of weakness. She stood a little straighter.

The two officers - squinting very hard, she was able to read their names on their uniform shirts, Purcell and Jevshenko - exchanged a long look, but their guns didn't waver. Slowly, carefully, Jevshenko lowered her weapon and stepped forward, left hand going for the standard-issue cuffs attached to her belt. Instinctively Sharon took a step back, and felt the side of her Accura pressing against her body. She had nowhere to go, literally and figuratively.

"Sharon Raydor," began the young woman, her blue eyes wide and frightened while the captain's own face took on a mask-like calm, "I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Thomas Alvarez. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you by the court."

Jevshenko sounded very far away, as if she were perhaps across a body of water - a canal, a river. The cuffs that snapped onto her wrists pinched, but Sharon didn't flinch. Purcell carefully maneuvered her so that her head didn't bump the car door._ Good_, noted the calm, bloodless FID portion of her brain.

The back seat smelled of warm leather and fast-food biscuits. Sharon's stomach roiled. She thought perhaps she was on the verge of panicking. Her heart pounded, she was sweating, but her body felt hollow somehow. There were too many questions. Who the hell was Thomas Alvarez? Why would anyone think she had killed him? How had she ended up at this fleabag motel? Who had drugged her, and why?

Sharon didn't like questions, so she sank back against the seat, regulated her breathing - deep and slow - and allowed herself to focus on only one: where in the _hell _were her shoes?


	2. Chapter 1

_Author's note: This chapter is all about the investigation, but I promise lots of Raydor/Flynn goodness (and a heaping helping of angst) ahead, so if this isn't quite your cuppa, please hang in there._

**Content warning: **This chapter contains a brief but explicit reference to Rusty's past, i.e., to underage prostitution.

**Let Slip the Dogs of Love: Chapter One**

1.

There was coffee at least, of a sort. It didn't taste like much, and it had been only lukewarm when a silent sergeant had brought it to her, but at least it looked like coffee. She was willing to go along with the illusion. It was better than nothing.

She had no idea what time it was. They had taken her watch along with her clothes for forensic analysis, and there was no clock in the small, airless interrogation room. There was never a clock; it was strategic. When you were left alone like this, with no contact with the bustle outside the locked door and no option but to sit and cool your heels, awaiting someone else's convenience, your sense of time dilated. It made suspects edgy, paranoid, angry - and that tended to work in favor of the police. Sharon knew all of this, and strove to maintain a sense of calm, even though she felt as if she'd been sitting in the hard plastic chair for hours. This was a mistake, she reiterated to herself, a crazy mistake. That was why she hadn't invoked. Until she understood what she was dealing with, there was no reason to escalate the situation; until she knew what questions she was going to be asked, there was no reason to refuse to answer them. There was nothing to be gained by appearing hostile, demanding a lawyer. It was best to play as nicely as possible.

Her stomach rumbled. It felt empty, bottomless. She couldn't remember last night's dinner, if she'd had dinner. She'd been working. The nausea was lifting slightly, and she felt almost weak with hunger. She reached for the coffee, stone-cold now, and took a cautious sip. As if she were stranded in the desert, she was rationing it; she wasn't foolhardy enough to expect a refill.

Her hand trembled so violently that the paper cup shook. If anyone was watching her on the monitor, it would be clearly visible. The thought made her clamp her top teeth down on her bottom lip as anger surged through her. It would be perceived as a sign of weakness, anxiety - and it wasn't. At least she didn't think it was. It seemed to be one of the residual effects of the drugs working their way out of her system. She'd watched enough suspects in custody trembling pitifully in withdrawal - and now, to have the entire LAPD think she, Captain Sharon Raydor, was in the same state. She folded her hands in her lap and willed her body to stop trembling, but it was beyond her control, this vibration that seemed to originate in the deepest fibers of her muscles.

So much was beyond her control right at this moment. But she could control how she behaved. She could control how she let herself be affected by this confinement, this indignity, by being forced to sit here in this hard plastic chair in the shapeless gray scrubs she had been issued after SID had confiscated her clothing. (She tried not to obsess over what they would be looking for - hair, skin cells, what? Something more specific? Blood?) She had finally stopped perspiring and now she was cold, as unnaturally cold as she had been unnaturally warm. The tiny hairs on her skin stood on end, her flesh prickling, and the shivering intensified. She had to lock her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. Her head was beginning to clear as the narcotic fog dissipated, but it brought no relief. Quite the opposite, in fact. As the vague numbness that had insulated her evaporated, it was difficult not to succumb to panic. Even Captain Sharon Raydor was only human, and it was difficult to imagine a worse situation than the one in which she found herself.

She was scared, and that infuriated her.

Perhaps it wouldn't all appear so relentlessly grim once someone actually deigned to come in here and talk to her. But somehow she didn't think so.

She forced herself to take careful inventory of her uninspiring surroundings, concentrating on them rather than on the fact that the SID tech had taken even her underwear, and now her nipples jutted painfully against the paper-thin scrub fabric for all the world to see. Between her half-clothed state and the camera trained on her, she felt like a display, an animal at the zoo. The walls were a peculiar beige tinged with yellow, a color that made the lighting appear dim while forcing the room's occupant to squint into a brightness that did nothing to illuminate. Long gray scuff-marks and greasy smudges marred the paint. The table upon which her coffee rested was coated in a cheap, fake wood-grain veneer that was peeling up at the edges. She disdainfully slipped her thumbnail into the crack. The interview rooms downtown were much nicer than the digs in West Hollywood.

That was where she was: West Hollywood, where the scenic Golden Palm was, evidently, located. Sharon liked West Hollywood. She liked the funky shops and the flamboyant personality. She liked drag shows and Hamburger Mary's. She did not like the police station.

She did not like Lieutenant Jack Murray, and he definitely did not like her. Her much-abused stomach dropped when the door opened and admitted his burly figure, although she'd expected it to be him that she would finally see.

Murray was a bad cop. Not bad as in corrupt; but, as far as Sharon was concerned, bad as in bad at his job. Professional Standards for the entire LAPD was centralized, and in her FID capacity Raydor had investigated Murray a near-record eight times. His file made Andy Flynn's look like Little League; Murray was the Majors. There were other important distinctions between the two men. Murray had a disturbing relish for brutality. Raydor was quite certain he liked firing his weapon or giving a suspect a good kicking, but he also knew all the right answers, and had passed his psych evaluations and been cleared to return to duty each time he'd been involved in a use-of-force complaint. The captain didn't rate him as smart or clever, but he was sneaky, under-handed, sneaky enough to have wormed his way into the WeHo robbery/homicide division. Raydor had made no secret of her opinion of Murray. He knew how she felt about him, and that she saw through him. He had to be loving every second of having her in this interview room, at his mercy.

He didn't leave her in suspense long before confirming her suspicion. "Well, well, _Captain _Sharon Raydor," he drawled, his eyes narrowing as his gaze crept over her from the doorway, lingering on her chest. She battled the urge to fold her arms over her breasts. "How the mighty have fallen."

It had been impossible to sit there all morning and not try to figure out what was happening down the hall in the bullpen. If Murray was involved, that went a long way toward explaining something that had left her mystified, to wit, why she was still here in West Hollywood. It hadn't taken even her drug-fogged brain to realize that no one was going to appear, give her back her clothes, apologize for the inconvenience, and send her away with a sticker and a lollipop. But assuming there really was somehow enough evidence to warrant her arrest on murder charges, well, that was a major crime. The head of Major Crimes being brought up on the charge of murdering a former police officer clearly _was _a major crime. By rights, she should have been taken downtown, at least after she had been booked and processed. She had been expecting, even hoping, to see a familiar face: Sanchez, Flynn - hell, even Provenza.

Well, Murray's face was familiar.

"I need medical assistance," Sharon stated as clearly and evenly as she could manage, combatting the tremor that wanted to creep into her voice.

The lieutenant grinned - a movement that involved a fairly horrible contortion of his deeply tanned cheeks behind a day's growth of stubble. "Did you bump your head gettin' in the black and white? Stub your toe in booking?" He lowered himself into the seat opposite her and sat with his knees splayed wide. Sharon hated it when men sat like that. It suited Murray, a position as coarse and uncouth as the man himself. "Don't worry, Sharon, it's not a brain tumor. It's a hangover." He angled his chin, looking directly up into the camera mounted just below the ceiling. "Rog, some more coffee for our special guest. She could use it."

Whoever Rog was, Sharon thought, he would probably spit in the coffee.

She hated every millisecond of this, hated the instinctive rush of humiliated gratitude she felt at the thought of more coffee, however it was procured. "As I have stated repeatedly, I have reason to believe I was drugged. I _require_ medical attention."

"Yeah, we're workin' on that," Murray murmured nonchalantly. He opened the familiar blue folder he had placed on the table with a flourish. "But first, let's have a little chat, huh? I know how good you are at asking questions. Let's see how you do at answering them."

Sharon gazed back at him, doing all she could to keep her face expressionless. Her heart was beating too fast, making it difficult to think with precision. The beautiful irony of the situation was that she could sue the department. By refusing her requests for medical care, Murray had given her grounds. She didn't want to sue the department, however. She just wanted someone to draw blood and take a urine sample for toxicology before all evidence of what had happened to her had been flushed from her body by its natural defenses.

"Where were you last night, Captain Raydor?"

"I worked late, until around ten. We caught a double homicide."

"For the record, the suspect is the head of the LAPD's Major Crimes Unit. I know your head hurts, Sharon, but can you be any more specific than 'around ten'?"

Sharon lowered her hands to the edges of the narrow chair in which she sat. "I think it was roughly 9:45. I texted my - my foster son from the parking garage. You can check the time stamp."

"We could, if we could locate your cell phone." Murray flipped a couple of pages, appearing to study them intently. Sharon knew it was all for show, but the knowledge only made her angry, a tight, coiling anger that slithered up her spine. "How are you acquainted with the victim, Thomas Alvarez?"

"Thomas Alvarez was a detective on the Drug Squad. In my capacity as the head of the Force Investigation Division, I investigated Mr. Alvarez for having unlawfully discharged his service weapon while he was off duty. The shots wounded one young woman, a bystander, and killed another."

Murray took his time writing something down. Sharon observed him without moving. "Prostitutes," he murmured at length.

The captain permitted herself a slow blink. "Murder victims."

"Like Thomas Alvarez himself. What a coincidence."

Out of sight, Sharon's fingers tightened on the edges of the chair.

"So why did you tell my officers who took you into custody this morning that you didn't even know Alvarez?" Murray lifted his eyebrows sardonically and gestured with his ballpoint pen. The cap was distorted by teeth marks. "You obviously remember him pretty well."

"Again, I was under the influence of drugs administered to me without my consent or knowledge. I was disoriented, and I haven't thought of Thomas Alvarez in several years."

"Maybe not since he went to prison for manslaughter?" the lieutenant suggested, his blue eyes meeting Raydor's green.

"Yes."

"And that was in 2006."

"Yes, that is correct." This wasn't so bad, Sharon soothed herself. Well, it _was_, but it could be worse. It wasn't terribly different from being cross-examined on the witness stand, something with which she had a great deal of experience. All she had to do was use that experience to her advantage. She just needed to stay alert, keep her wits about her, and choose her words carefully.

"Hmm." Murray shuffled papers again, then looked up at her from beneath his heavy brows. "That's really interesting, captain, since we can prove he's been blackmailing you for the past five months."

Sharon stared.

Murray stared back, waiting, almost grinning. She wanted to punch him in the mouth.

She was afraid she might throw up again.

Her fingers tightened on the chair, gripping so hard that the plastic dug into her flesh. She appreciated the pain; it helped her clear her head.

She chose her words very carefully indeed. "I want my attorney. _Now_."

2.

They heard Provenza coming before they saw him, his loafer-shod feet treading emphatically heavily. Sanchez's face tightened, his brows lowering ominously. Even Buzz's shoulders slumped.

Verbal confirmation was hardly necessary, but Sykes was the brave one who found her voice first. "Bad news, lieutenant?"

The lieutenant answered with an inarticulate but heartfelt grumble and a swiping motion of his hand, as if he yearned to wipe the entire Murder Room and everything in it from the face of the earth.

The other members of the group exchanged anxious looks. "Sir, where's the captain?" Sanchez finally asked in that stolid, gravelly way he had.

Instead of answering right away, Provenza stomped over to his desk. "The Pope showed up while I was talking to Taylor, and I was _not_ invited to the audience." He planted his hands on his hips and pivoted to glance at the murder board, the information that had been so vital last night now seemingly irrelevant as the fate of one of their own hung in the balance, shrouded in mystery. He turned back and surveyed the room, his expression making his normal scowl look like a beatific smile. "Where the hell's Flynn?"

"He went to pick Rusty up from school, sir." With his arms dangling loosely at his sides, Sanchez's jacket-clad shoulders looked even squarer than usual. "The sixth time he called to ask what was going on, Lieutenant Flynn took pity on him."

Flynn had wanted to be included in his partner's conversation with the Assistant Chief, but with Raydor temporarily - unavailable, Provenza was the boss, not just one of the gang, and for once he'd put his foot down. Flynn had an unequalled ability to raise Taylor's hackles, probably because just looking at his shit-eating grin and designer ties tended to remind the chief that the lieutenant had inside knowledge of virtually every low-down stunt the former captain had ever pulled. Throwing Sharon Raydor's name into the mix was like waving a red flag in front of a bull, especially for Flynn. Provenza wasn't the least bit surprised that Andy had found himself something other to do than languishing in the squad room.

"I don't imagine Rusty was having much luck concentrating on pre-calculus anyway," Tao commented as he leaned against his desk, his expression subdued.

Provenza darted a dark look at the taller man. "I hope Flynn fills him in before they get here. That's not a conversation I'd particularly relish being a part of."

Sykes worried her lower lip. "The lieutenant told Rusty that Captain Raydor had been found safe, but that there were some questions we needed to ask about what happened last night." She cocked her head in inquiry. "So why aren't we asking them?"

"Before Pope came in, Taylor confirmed that Sharon is still at the West Hollywood station. He just told me what we already knew: after the BOLO was issued, a coupla rookies picked her up at some seedy motel out there. She was wandering around in the parking lot. They thought she was stoned."

Sykes emitted a single gulping giggle at the idea of the captain being stoned before Provenza's best Medusa glare silenced her.

Sanchez was instantly ready to spring into action. "What are we waiting for, then? Let's go get her. I'll go, sir."

"Wait, Julio." The older man stopped the detective with a hand on his shoulder. "We have to wait for her to be formally transferred into our custody."

"Ah - custody?" Tao seemed to grow another three inches. "You mean she's been arrested?"

Provenza nodded as he looked down at his shoes, tongue firmly lodged in front of his teeth. "Arrested and charged."

"It's obvious that someone stole the captain's ID and cell phone and planted them in that culvert!" Sanchez exclaimed. "What kind of _idiot_ would think she had anything to do with murdering a low-life like Thomas Alvarez?"

"Jack Murray, that's what kind of idiot," Provenza muttered in response (although the name wouldn't have meant anything to any of them except Flynn), and heard something hit the floor just inside the doorway of the squad room. Turning, he saw that it was Rusty's backpack. The teenager stood behind it, wide-eyed.

"The cops think Sharon _killed _someone?" His voice shot up an octave in incredulity, and a guarded expression flickered over his face. "Wait, you guys _are_ the cops. This is _bullshit_." Without Sharon around, no one reprimanded Rusty for his use of profanity, probably because they agreed. "Sharon would never hurt anybody." And then, after half a second, "I mean, she'd never kill anybody. Not unless they, like, really deserved it."

The boy instinctively took a step back and collided with Andy Flynn's chest. Flynn dropped a hand onto his shoulder as his eyes met his partner's. "Don't worry, kid. We're gonna sort this out." He addressed the group at large. "I'm with Sanchez. Why wait; let's go over there."

"I wanna go," Rusty piped up with desperate eagerness, his eyes skittering around the room as he tried to decide whom to address before settling on the eldest lieutenant. "I'm going."

"Whoa." Provenza held up one hand. "Nobody's going anywhere yet. Sit your ass down, Flynn. You too, kid."

Neither of them sat. "What, you think now's a good time to start listening to Taylor?" Flynn cracked. "I'm just saying we go expedite things."

Rusty turned to the younger lieutenant, sensing an ally. "I need to go see her. She'll be worried about me."

Although that was undoubtedly true, everyone knew what Rusty wasn't saying: he was worried sick about the woman who had become much more of a mother to him over the past year than his own had ever been.

"You wouldn't be able to see her now anyway," Andy informed him as gently as possible, not wanting to fan the flames unduly. It was one thing for him to go charging into a bad situation; it was quite another for him to bring a 17-year-old with him. "Don't worry, we'll make sure she knows you're safe."

Rusty slumped slightly and subsided. He hadn't given up the fight, but he knew when it was best to be quiet and await a better opportunity.

"This should be our case," Sanchez complained, flopping down so heavily in his desk chair that it rolled several inches and Sykes had to scoot out of the way. "It's a Major Crime."

"Can you say 'conflict of interest,' Detective Sanchez?"

The look on Sanchez's face suggested that he could also say 'asshole,' and Provenza's expression darkened even further, as everyone's favorite assistant chief entered the Murder Room. "Now it's a party," Provenza muttered.

Taylor ignored him. "The LAPD cannot be perceived to be showing any favoritism. You can't investigate one of your own."

They all exchanged looks. It was odd not to have Raydor there filling the awkward silence by asking a clear, concise question in that unhurried way of hers.

"So who can?" Provenza demanded, ruffled, and a little scandalized by having to verbally express the extent of his loyalty to the Wicked Witch.

"That's what Chief Pope and I have been discussing. I'll be heading up this murder investigation myself, with a hand-picked group of officers."

A cacophany of voices responded, each asserting its owner's right to be included in that 'hand-picked' group. Flynn had heard enough. Still near the door, he began to back away unobtrusively. He'd known Taylor longer than anyone else here, and though the days when he'd almost considered the other man an ally were a distant memory he wished he could erase altogether, he still knew the assistant chief better than his other colleagues did. There was nothing to be gained by attempting to reason or argue with the smarmy sonofabitch. It was much more efficient, if potentially less prudent, to ignore him altogether. A good starting point, Flynn decided as he slipped into the hallway, was literally going behind Taylor's back.

A slender hand and arm jammed themselves between the elevator doors at the last possible second. "No way are you going without me," Rusty stated adamantly, his eyes flashing beneath his thick bangs.

Andy took in his awkward pose, the wrinkled school uniform shirt half tucked into his khaki pants, the backpack slung by one strap over a bony shoulder - and the determined jut of his chin. "All right, kid," he conceded. "Just keep your mouth shut, yeah?" Flynn jabbed the button for the lobby.

"I promise not to do anything to interfere with the investigation."

The lieutenant shot him a sidelong look and sucked his teeth as if keenly feeling the absence of a toothpick. "I meant don't tell Raydor I'm the one who let you tag along, or she'll interfere with a sensitive portion of my anatomy."

The elevator doors slid shut, and the car at last whooshed downward.

3.

Andy nearly collided with a tall, dapper, hurtling blond meteor in the parking lot of the West Hollywood station house. Gavin's designer briefcase banged into the lieutenant's shins and Rusty scurried after a sheaf of papers now dancing lazily over the asphalt. "She invoked?" Flynn demanded.

"She did - only about ten minutes ago." The younger man took a last look at the screen of his smartphone before slipping it into his blazer pocket. "I was already on my way over," he admitted. "I thought she might need me."

There was no need to ask how Gavin had known about the captain's plight; Gavin knew everything, and he and Sharon Raydor were friendly, if not quite friends. Flynn had a moment to digest this because Rusty was back between them, handing over the papers and bursting out, "You're Sharon's lawyer? Did you talk to her? How did she sound? Is she okay? What happened to her?"

"Gavin Baker." Rearranging his burden, the attorney extended one hand and firmly shook Rusty's, who stood a little straighter. There was something reassuringly adult about a handshake. "And you're Rusty. Sharon sounded very much like Captain Raydor, okay? I'm sure she's giving everyone in there a hard time." Above Rusty's head, his eyes met Andy Flynn's. "Let me go in and have a chat with her, and then I'll know more."

"And you'll tell me what you find out?" Rusty stepped forward, refusing to be overlooked or treated like some naive kid. "Even if it's bad, you've got to tell me."

Almost imperceptibly, Gavin's eyes again sought Flynn's. The older man nodded discreetly, stone-faced. Gavin shrugged. "You've got it. - Excuse me."

Rusty stuck close to Lieutenant Flynn as they entered the police station in Gavin's wake. It was a brilliantly sunny day out, but in here it was dingy, dark - it could have been the middle of the night. Rusty had had enough of police stations in the middle of the night. They threaded past two handcuffed men stolidly awaiting... something. One had a black eye; the other, a nasty split lip. Rusty avoided eye contact.

Being down at central was one thing. There was sunlight, shiny steel, the reassuring scent of fresh coffee, his high scores at online chess saved on the extra computer - the one no one liked to use because it was old and too slow to run their programs. There were familiar faces, words of friendly greeting or at least tolerance. Even Lieutenant Provenza's griping seemed almost like a mark of approval; he complained about Sharon too, but no one really believed he hated her any more. There was Sharon giving him unnecessary reminders to finish his homework, plaguing him about things like the symbolism in William Carlos Williams's poetry (he still wasn't convinced on that score - what was symbolic about a _wheelbarrow_?) and whether he'd eaten anything green at lunch. Sometimes they treated him like part of the office furniture; even that had a certain charm. He liked feeling like he belonged, like he was on the right side of the law. One of the good guys.

Here he felt dirty. He felt like an underage whore who had sucked cock to buy hamburgers off the dollar menu. His jaw tightening with a kind of defiant fear, he looked down at the school insignia on the left breast of his pale blue polo shirt. He felt a little like it was his badge, shorthand for 'normal teenager'.

Sharon wasn't supposed to be here. This was not her element. Mixing with his acute anxiety he felt an obscure fury. How had she let this happen? Sharon wasn't supposed to be here.

Instinctively, he edged closer to Andy Flynn.

Rusty's eyes narrowed shrewdly as he watched the tall, salt-and-pepper-haired lieutenant, grateful for the distraction. He had expected Flynn to barge right up to the duty officer and start demanding information. When he wanted to, Flynn could be even louder than Provenza, that marked New Jersey twang becoming more pronounced, running rough-shod over everything in its way. But he was taking a markedly different approach here, moving almost surreptitiously, staying on the periphery of the action, content to remain unnoticed. As Rusty watched Andy, Andy watched everything going on around them, his dark eyes keen beneath deceptively sleepy lids. The teenager was suddenly reminded of something Sharon had snapped at the lieutenant months ago in a moment of angry exasperation: "When you blunder into these situations and open your mouth without stopping to listen first, it makes it very easy for people to underestimate you."

Rusty remembered, too, the way Flynn's eyes had twinkled as if his captain had paid him a compliment and the lazy grin that had tugged at the corners of his mouth as he had simply replied, "I know."

Most clearly of all Rusty recalled the way Sharon's eyes had flared just for an instant in response, and how she had turned away with a shake of her head. Only Rusty had been able to see the answering gleam in her intensely green eyes, or the way she had swallowed down a chuckle, her exasperation almost entirely forgotten.

Flynn wasn't a hot-head; he just played one on TV.

Andy at last turned to Rusty and spoke, but it wasn't what the boy had expected him to say. "Thirsty? You want a soda?" Not waiting for an answer, he dug a couple of bills from his wallet. "Go get one out of the machine over there, and then see if you can get down the hall." Rusty followed his dark gaze to the hallway beside the vending machine. "The interview rooms are down there. Look for the captain, but don't make a scene. If anybody asks, you need the toilet."

Rusty's face lit up, delighted to be of use, and he strode off. Andy knew teenagers. He needed to dispatch the kid for a few minutes, and he knew this was much more effective than a simple "Wait here." Besides, if Rusty could glimpse the captain, it might allay his fears (unless Raydor was falling apart back there - but that was unthinkable).

For his part, Andy sidled back toward the bullpen, flashing his badge at the uniform on the desk. He was too smart and too familiar with procedure to attempt pulling rank or asking any questions in an official capacity; that was why he'd lingered until he spotted a familiar face. Now he strolled up to the petite dark-skinned woman busy at the coffee machine.

"Hey, Lil," he greeted her. "I could use a cup too, unless you made it."

"Andy Flynn - what the hell?" Lilith Vaughn grinned up at him. She had been a green kid in uniform when she'd been assigned to Robbery/Homicide; now she was a detective sergeant. "For that, I'll spit in your coffee."

She didn't, though, pouring the dark liquid into a cup that she handed over. "I don't suppose you'd like some information along with that coffee, hmm? Otherwise this is a long way for you to come to get your morning fix, and it sure as hell ain't Starbucks."

Flynn grinned back. "Ah, but for a smile from you, Lil -"

"Save it, Casanova. You've been able to restrain yourself for, what, the last eight years? Until the morning when your ranking officer happens to be in one of our interview rooms." She arched her eyebrows, waiting.

Andy offered a little shrug and a nod. "All right, I'll cut the bullshit. The Pope won't let us within a hundred miles of this investigation. I need to know what you've got on her."

Vaughn hesitated. "Andy... it's an open case. I can't -"

"They found her cell phone and ID in a ditch near Alvarez's body," he cut in urgently. "That's enough to bring her in for questioning, but not enough to arrest her - especially not when we're talking about _Sharon Raydor._ What else is there?"

The detective bit her lip and looked down into her coffee as she dumped a generous measure of sugar into her cup. "Murray was really specific, Andy. If anybody talks out of turn, we're gonna get our asses nailed to the wall."

Flynn ran a hand through his hair, the only outward sign of his growing anxiety. "Wait - _Jack_ Murray? Shit, Lil, everybody knows how many times he's dusted up with IA. You honestly think he's giving the captain a fair shake?"

Hesitantly, she met the lieutenant's eyes. Flynn knew he wasn't wrong; she knew Flynn wasn't wrong. "Her car," she elaborated in a low voice, glancing around furtively to make sure no one else was within earshot. "It's been impounded and SID's working their magic, but it's got a huge dent in the front bumper and paint scrapes that will definitely match Alvarez's car. It's the one that ran him off the road. Unofficially, we already know the bullet in his brain came from a service weapon. Hers has been fired recently. Once we match up the striations -"

Flynn was shaking his head. "It's a set-up," he said even more urgently. "Lil, there's no way in hell. Sharon wouldn't put a toe out of line with the law; no way would she kill somebody, not even a cretin like Alvarez. He's not worth the bullet. And your uniforms said she seemed out of it, right? She barely even drinks. She was probably drugged; has she seen a doctor, been tested? With Murray in charge, this isn't going to _be_ an investigation; it's going to be a witch-hunt!"

Before Andy Flynn could reflect on his own unfortunate, and unintentional, pun, another voice interrupted. "Don't worry, Lieutenant Flynn. This is going to be a thorough, fair, and impartial investigation; you have my word on that. And it isn't going to be handled by Lieutenant Murray or anyone else inside the LAPD."

Flynn turned slowly, trying to decide if he was more irritated or relieved to see Special Agent Fritz Howard standing behind him.

"As of right now, the FBI is taking over the investigation into the death of Thomas Alvarez. Captain Raydor is being taken into federal custody as we speak."

A muscle in the lieutenant's jaw twitched. "The FBI," he repeated. "What the hell does the FBI care about a dirty cop finally getting his?"

Fritz shrugged in that diplomatic way of his, the one that made him a good FBI liaison and a good match for the bullheaded Brenda Leigh Johnson. "The Bureau cares," he echoed, "when said dirty cop is an FBI informant."


End file.
